


Shock Trauma

by rosie_the_scrivener



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon (far as I know), Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Flashbacks, Hand Jobs, Implied Oral Sex which will be upgraded soon, It's gonna get worse, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Plot Twists, Post-Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, Roughness, Slow Build, TW: Betrayal, TW: Suffering, kiss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-20 01:02:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3630849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosie_the_scrivener/pseuds/rosie_the_scrivener
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freddie confronts Will with what she knows, what she saw, before and after the bloodbath. Will can't forget, try as he might not to remember.</p><p>_______________<br/>"He leaned against the countertop, maybe eighteen inches from the doctor. Will settled his elbows on the countertop. Lecter registered this insouciance with a scant raise of his eyebrow. “It’s getting late”, Will remarked, “Long drive back”.</p><p> Lecter turned off the faucet. He began drying his hands on a towel with more care than strictly necessary. Lecter took particular care over the center of his left hand- Will saw the faint surgical scar on the back of that hand, far older than the still-pink tracks on Lecter’s wrists. The left hand seemed larger than the right- fractionally larger, but unnaturally broad." ... “That’s true. But night is long in the winter- there is plenty of time yet,” Lecter replied, returning his eyes to the dishtowel. Lecter’s tone was conversational, but Will would have described the accent as thicker, more guttural than usual. “Time for what?” Will asked evenly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wake Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Shock Trauma' is the informal name of the R Adams Cowley Shock Trauma Center; it's under the auspices of UMD Medical Center, but technically freestanding hospital. In canon universe, the events of Mizumono took place within a mile of this Level 1 trauma center.

Will Graham woke up two days ago.

 

He laid supine in his hospital bed in the University of Maryland Medical Center, awareness perpetually sharpening to half-strength and fading again on the morphine drip. He knew where he was because the doctors asked him the standard questions once he was taken off the ventilator. Do you know your name. Do you know what year it is. Do you know where you are. At the last one, he had shaken his head. The neurologist officiously informed him, “You’re in the best hospital in the region for this type of injury, Mr. Graham. Johns Hopkins doesn’t hold a candle to Shock Trauma”. He had started to laugh- _shock trauma_. _You have no idea_. That spasm of incredulity had nearly burst the staples in his intestines. Unnerved, doctors added more tranquilizers, to prevent any undue stress on his severed abdominal muscles. It was too soon to stitch the dermis back together; the internal sutures needed to begin to heal first. They had glued the external wound shut.

 

He was vaguely aware of a reedy, authoritative voice challenging the guard at his door. He had few visitors. Nearly all his friends were in this hospital as well. The nurses who changed the surgical pads on his belly had admitted Jack and Alana were also there. Will had smiled numbly- that meant they were alive, only meters from where he lay. When he was capable of coherent thought, he told himself _Jack and Alana are alive_. He would not bring the omitted persons to his consciousness. The room’s door opened a crack, spilling a sliver of bright hallway light on the floor. Will turned his head, saw the guard was still hesitant to admit the badgering visitor.

 

“I don’t have you on the list of approved visitors”, the guard was saying. He sounded young.

“No, no, Will and I weren’t very close but when I heard what happened, I couldn’t leave a family member like that”, the voice replied. Feminine. Coaxing, but steely.

“And you’re his…” “I told you, Officer, he’s my cousin”. Officer, not agent. Baltimore local. _Right_ , thought Will, _all the agents are looking for- him_.

“Miss, I don’t see any aunts or uncles listed.” “My parents are deceased, Officer.”

“Oh.” A beat. No attempt by the visitor to assuage the discomfort. “Well, I’m sorry, the protocol’s in place for his own protection…” Discomfort, weaseling words. Officer’s resolve had crumbled.

“Officer, you’ll be right here and I just want to let him know he’s not alone,” came the smooth reply from the bright voice. Murmured assent and the click of heels across the floor of Will’s room.

Will squinted through the painkiller haze. He knew, even in this state, that he didn’t have any cousins who would visit. He caught a flash of a dark green coat and a skinny, pale arm as the visitor approached. The door shut. His head drifted back to center, the drugs flowing through his veins. Freddie Lounds’s pointed fox-face appeared above him, her tangle of hair glowing orange in the fluorescent light.

 

He blinked. “Freddie”, he said in muted surprise. She half-grinned down at him. “Hi, Will. I’d ask how you’re feeling, but I bet you’re not feeling much yet,” she said, radiating wry confidence even now. “Why. Why are you here,” he stated more than asked. She sighed, with dramatic suggestion. “Oh, I know. I’ve got so much to do. Readership is up ten, fifteen times from before- thank god I wrote up all the background material before this,” she smiled white button teeth. Only Freddie could talk paragraphs through a smile. “No blog updates when I was supposed to be dead- remember when you broke my car window? - so I got a lot of work done. I’ll have the manuscript to the publisher by the end of the month. Of course, that’s for the first edition”, she gave a little wave of her hand, “since I can’t get interviews from you, Jack, or Alana. Yet.” Seeing he slowly parsed what she said, she went on, “So little information out yet. Whatever cards the FBI’s holding, they’re keeping them close." Will’s eyes focused on a distant point beyond her head. “Have they found…”, he struggled to ask. She shook her head. “That’s one thing I know, Will. No sign of him. Not a trace. Evading passport control is a lot harder than it was when he came here, but since I don’t see him taking Eric Rudolph’s tent in the woods, I bet he’s far, far away,” she replied. Will nodded, trying to process this information. Of course, whatever tall, graying man gave his life for Hannibal Lecter to fly first class with a clean passport was certainly killed before Will ever met the Ripper. But the Ripper’s last victims…

 

“Abigail”, Will croaked. His jaw contorted after he spoke her name. Freddie gazed down at Will, not unkindly. Her curls rustled with the shake of her head. “She’s gone, Will.” Freddie raised her head to stare at the light for a moment. Later, Will would push away the thought that Freddie blinked back tears. “I’ll write about her. Her legacy, the truth of it, is more important than what you asked. She was a troubled girl. Millions of people will know she was a victim in your… the FBI’s… game”, Freddie declared breathlessly to no one in particular. Will tried to raise himself up to protest, but could barely set his elbows into the sheets. Freddie shook her head again. “I didn’t come here to upset you, Will.” She drew a breath and reached into her tote bag, drawing out a single page. “I brought this. I took it- the newest telephoto lenses are amazing, even at night,” she deadpanned.

 

Freddie held the paper in two of her pointed white fingers in front of Will’s face. It was a photograph, clearly shot through a window. The scene swam into focus for Will. Not the highest resolution, but enough to recognize… himself. And Dr. Lecter. Locked in a kiss. Will was backed against the kitchen counter, his visible arm around Lecter’s waist, pulling at the other man’s back. Hannibal’s sideburns were distinctive, even if his patterned waistcoat and pants hadn’t been, even though the profile of his face was obscured by Will’s own. In the photo, their open mouths were pressed together with intent.  With palpable heat. Lecter’s visible hand was clutching Will’s hair. Will idly recognized that he should feel panic at Freddie Lounds having this image- but he felt so far away from the present, to say nothing of the past. The house where he died. _The kitchen_ , he thought, _after the birds_. _That was the first time_.

 

He had known, or at least suspected, Lecter’s lust would be coming soon. After the goddamn birds. That was foreplay if he had ever seen it- actually, he had rarely seen it, but that night was Lecter’s least concealed plan of the entire year. As in all things, Will now appreciated, Lecter wanted him to know. Will could hear the man fantasizing in the phone call that morning, inviting him for a dinner. What had Lecter promised? _A rare treat_. A year before, Will would have at least startled at the realization he was being propositioned by anyone, male or female, let alone the killer who sawed through Abigail’s throat. But this far in, Will had suppressed nearly all of his own inclinations, his own thought patterns, to lure Lecter. No matter what he said to Jack or Alana, his entire affect reciprocated Lecter’s views and desires… Will had known sublimating his entire self was the only way to convince Lecter that he truly killed Lounds. That he would truly run with Lecter- he was fluid, once again. That was why he scared Jack and Alana so badly. They knew the Will they knew was not the Will that stood before them. Refusing the advances did not rise to a conscious option.

 

When Lecter had risen to carry their plates into the kitchen, refusing an offer of help, Will heard the anticipation in the man’s voice. Will could have felt revulsion at the thought of a murderer- a serial killer, _who felt Beverly’s pulse go weak as he strangled her, strong, believing Beverly_ \- being awash with lust. In this subaltern persona, _He’s slipping_ , had been Will’s satisfied thought. He remembered rising from the chair thirty seconds, a minute later, entering the kitchen to see Lecter rinsing the dishes in the sink. Lecter had taken off his suit jacket already, shirtsleeves rolled back. _Slipping_. Will decided to push him.

 

_He leaned against the countertop, maybe eighteen inches from the doctor. Will settled his elbows on the countertop. Lecter registered this insouciance with a scant raise of his eyebrow. “It’s getting late”, Will remarked, “Long drive back."_

_Lecter turned off the faucet. He began drying his hands on a towel with more care than strictly necessary. Lecter took particular care over the center of his left hand- Will saw the faint surgical scar on the back of that hand, far older than the still-pink tracks on Lecter’s wrists. The left hand seemed larger than the right- fractionally larger, but unnaturally broad. Will imagined, from a perspective outside his own, how those hands would look gripping his hips- maybe his head- maybe his throat- later. While he couldn’t project his thoughts, he felt certain that Lecter could read the deliberations on his face. Will gazed at those hands for a second too long, to ensure Lecter noticed._

_“That’s true. But night is long in the winter- there is plenty of time yet,” Lecter replied, returning his eyes to the dishtowel. Lecter’s tone was conversational, but Will would have described the accent as thicker, more guttural than usual. “Time for what?” Will asked evenly. Lecter set the dishtowel down. Will noted that he didn’t fold it. Slipping. “The euphoria I described - have you felt it, Will?” asked Lecter. He met Will’s gaze with his own dark eyes. The maroon cast of Lecter’s brown eyes resembled blood in the soft light of the kitchen. Throatily, low and blunt, Will replied “Not yet.”_

Will drifted back to the present. He dully noted that though she still held the photograph, Freddie Lounds’s attention was on his heart-rate monitor. The number had risen. She looked back at him, thin mouth quirking in another small smirk. “It’s my gift to you, Will. Well, it’s a debt settled,” she said. “You can have this copy. I scrubbed the digital file. Threw the drive in Druid Hill Lake”. Will frowned at her. “Why?” he asked. She pursed her lips. “I’m not awful. Half my friends are gay. Plus, do you know what it takes to moderate a website?  My readers are young, inquiring minds, interested in piercing truths about failed investigations; I don’t want _Tattlecrime’s_ comment sections flooded with homophobes.” She saw the shadow of a scowl cross his face. “Please, I don’t care whether you claim it was an act- this would overshadow _everything_ else he did, Will. Sex sells.” Freddie said haughtily. But her expression softened. “You did sort of save my life. From him. And Abigail- one of the paramedics, he said they found you… trying to help her. Holding her. Crying.” Freddie looked at him quizzically, almost sympathetically. Will’s thoughts were a soup; he only stared back at her, unblinking.

Freddie broke eye contact, inhaled sharply. When she met his eyes again, her face had her trademark mercenary glimmer. “Besides”, she said with a touch of playfulness, “The FBI, Alana Bloom, certain interest groups would beg you to claim the picture’s manipulated. Even though the truth is an absolute defense to libel, I don’t want to deal with a lawsuit- I don’t want to pay lawyers to tell the truth. I’m about to make a _lot_ of money.” Freddie flashed a satisfied grin. “I’ll hold onto this til you’re out of the hospital. And I’ll wait for your call to schedule my exclusive interview about the night you were nearly killed by the vicious criminal. For the title, I’m thinking-” her free hand gave a small flourish, “ _Hannibal of Carnage_."

Will’s eyes narrowed. “Fuck you, Freddie” was all he could cough out. She let out a laugh, folding the paper and tucking back in her bag. “Get well soon!” he heard her call, too cheerfully, as her heels clicked away. The morphine haze descended over Will again. As he heard the door close, his eyes fell closed, his mind _slipping_ back-

_Hannibal had been on him in a split second. Will had a new understanding of how overwhelmed the man’s victims had been- how impressive it was that Bev fired five shots, the last two with these quick hands overtaking her. Seeing this particular event from outside, Will knew the doctor reached over Will’s chest with his right arm, snaking up behind to catch in his hair, while his left palm landed between Will’s shoulders. Instead of violence, the hand stroked. Will shivered. Will felt Hannibal’s breath on his face a moment before those lips collided with his own. Automatism would have been a terrible defense to murder, especially when Will could not say whether a basic action like his mouth opening was under the pressure of Hannibal’s mouth of his own volition or what that volition was. ‘To solve crimes’ was a motive far removed from Hannibal’s tongue running over Will’s teeth, searching out the acid of the wine and the stickiness of the birds._

_Will would have had even less defense for his hands; his shoulders trapped beneath Hannibal’s arms, Will reached for the doctor’s waist and back, pulling at the clothes, the barriers. Will had felt powerful muscles course under his hands then, firm as the granite edge at the small of his back._

Perfect for Freddie Lounds’s telephoto lens to capture from a hundred yards away, through the French doors with the blinds raised, even though the brick yard of the wall shielded them from cursory view… just as Jack’s improbable, but expert, snipers were laid out on the same rooftops Lounds had used only weeks earlier.

_Hannibal moved his hand from Will’s hair then, to cradle Will’s face, as he had before. He’d let the kiss go before Will did. “Not in here”, he had said, urgently. Will had nodded, acquiescing again, as the doctor pulled him towards the doorway, through the hall, to the stairs._

Faintly, Will registered the beeping of the heart rate monitor. His head lolled to one side as he accepted unconsciousness with the automatic push of benzodiazepines. _Glad it was never in the room where she died_ \- he thought- _Where we died_.  

 


	2. Separate Rooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal receives a message and contemplates what evidence he left behind, and how it may be misinterpreted to hurt Will Graham.

Freddie Lounds paced the track at Druid Hill Park, full of nervous energy. She used to do it to organize her thoughts, mulling over the lines of her blog posts til inspiration seized her, stopping her by the water fountains to text (herself) lines in a furious frenzy. She’d appreciated feeling on top of the roiling post-industrial city. Baltimore had been counted out, called a sleazy center of crime in the last three decades; now it was poised for a comeback as the technocratization of healthcare drew Millenials shut out by other, overpriced cities of the region. Freddie had recognized Baltimore as a good place to reinvent her brand of journalism. This day, though, she couldn’t shake the feeling she was being watched. As a woman, a redheaded woman at that, she had ignored the discomfort of being watched in public for years. This was different. This was someone staring at her for being _herself_. That was even more frightening than being spied upon for just being female in public. 

            She collected herself, shivered under her long jade-green overcoat. Unseasonably cold weather still gripped Baltimore. _I moved here from Chicago to wind up with this_ , she thought ruefully. She looked again at the small packet in her hand. _Fuck it_ , she thought _, it’ll be the sequel._ Freddie strode, purposefully now, to the blue mailbox. _Maybe the third installment_ , she told herself as she dropped it in.

 

* * *

 

            A world away- an old world- and several weeks later, Hannibal Lecter collected his mail under a very different name. He ignored the glint of the warm afternoon sun off the gold ring on the third finger of his left hand. _Useful diversion_ , he mused, _a personal stop sign_. A single man arriving alone invited suspicion from governments, neighbors; travelling as one half of a couple afforded him more respectability, especially in the more conservative places. Kept all but the most persistent to polite inquiries. He saw the resignation on their faces, male and female alike, when he answered their halting “Oh, you’re… what does she…” with a shower of praise for his wife, his Beatrice. Bedelia didn’t find it as amusing as he did. From his social experience, this divergence of opinion was common among actual married couples as well.  Turning over the envelopes- requests for donations, a few invitations, even fewer handwritten (to which he would reply)- an odd one caught his attention. It was foreign; the scents of the American Mid-Atlantic radiated from it even now. _Pine. Cold. Unleaded gasoline,_ he detected. This envelope was addressed in green ink to  _R. De Feo_. Lecter smiled to himself as he walked up the stairs; problematic as she could be, he did appreciate Lounds’s cheek.

            Lecter walked through the apartment, barely registering his surroundings. He was aware of Bedelia's presence in her favorite of the six rooms as he walked down the center hall.  Lecter left her to her own devices, for now. He knew she preferred not to see him until dinner. She kept to herself lately, or rather kept herself away from him. She claimed the second bedroom for her own when they arrived in this city, saying his coming to bed long after she retired disturbed her sleep. He demurred, of course. _Another diversion,_ he thought, annoyance shimmering across his sculptural face.

            He sat down at the narrow, dark wood desk in the – _his_ \- bedroom. Placing the other mail aside, he opened the envelope that had surely come from Freddie Lounds.

            _It can be pleasant_ , he thought as he carefully opened the battered envelope with the blunt blade from the desk, _to keep in touch_. Lecter considered eliminating Freddie Lounds to guard against her further intrusion when he left Baltimore- but there simply wasn’t time. He invited her to correspond instead. Freddie Lounds was one of a very few people who wouldn’t reveal communication with Lecter to the FBI; her drive for self-interest was impressive. He knew she wanted the hunt to go on for years, chronicling Lecter’s preternatural avoidance of detection. Biding her time for a sequel to her best-selling book. His original note to her invited her to keep in touch in a manner so simple, the FBI was sure to overlook it. Mail a message to him addressed to the P.O. Box in suburban New York- Freddie would have staked it out and seen the owner throw the mail for the ‘old resident’ back into the return-to-sender tray. Lecter was certain that she would recognize to leave the mail alone. Then the post office would return it to the return address- the first forwarding service, which sent it on to the address on file- a second, more discreet mail forwarding service. Lecter smiled to himself; the FBI would be on the lookout for electronic communications, which can nearly always be traced back to a physical location. _Efficiency,_ he thought as he extracted the note from the envelope, _is often simple carelessness_.

 

            Inside the envelope a note folded in half. As Lecter unfolded it, the garish red _Tattlecrime_ letterhead slashed across the top. A small, flat SanDisc-type drive fell onto the desk. _Dr. – First file is only on this drive; do not intend to publish. Went to a lot of trouble to get the second set. Before I interview him, does W know? – F._ Lecter removed a small laptop from a desk drawer (one with the wireless adapter removed; not even the FBI’s tracer software could trace what isn’t connected). He inserted the disk to view the pictures. Two folders: _TC ORIGINAL,_ and _HL CRIME SCENE_ INTERIOR_DO NOT COPY_. 

            Lecter opened the latter folder first, which contained four image files. The first image showed the kitchen floor. Blood tracked everywhere, in pools, swipes, and smears, left by the paramedics who had removed the living. Yellow cards marked the relative positions where the forms of Will Graham and Abigail Hobbs had been found, left by the investigators who removed the dead. The body positions overlapped where the blood was thickest.

The second depicted the third-story room that Abigail occupied, after Will was arrested. _Such a busy household_ , mused Lecter, _after Miriam departed, still often attending to two guests at once._ Lecter had once told Abigail that she had to sleep in her own bed; when her bed came to be hidden in his home, he made it one to suit her. It was decorated in a warmer, more youthful style than the rest of the house with lilac-painted walls and a bed laid out in white, but was stripped of all personal effects- Hannibal knew those were in the trunk and bags still stacked by the bed. The third photo showed that same luggage opened; in the trunk, clothing in jewel tones, layered between tissue paper, scarves rolled in neat coils, a sketch book. She accumulated a lot of items in the scant five months that she remained in his house, Lecter thought, a touch ruefully. Miriam Lass had required much less effort over two years. Lecter wondered if Will would take mementos once all of Abigail’s possessions were logged as evidence. That would be a difficult choice for Will. The man’s cluttered house belied his childish attachment to objects, and he had no keepsakes to conjure images of Abigail. But everything Abigail possessed had been given to her by Lecter.

            The fourth and final photograph was a high-resolution shot of the smallest bag, opened to show the objects _in situ_. It was a style commonly called a doctor’s bag, a traveling bag appropriate for airplane carry-on. Obviously, it had been packed for a journey- visible in the photo was a headphone case, an e-reader, a hair brush holding in its tines shiny, thin brown strands that highlighted by the camera’s flash. And a white pill bottle, lying on its side. _Promethazine 25 mg_ read the printed label. Under those words, _Remember to take vitamins!_ was written in Abigail’s looped cursive letters.

            The change in Lecter’s expression would not have been noticed by a viewer in real time. An average person would have gasped, or even teared up at the sentiment.  _It was going to be known_ , he thought, _whether publicly or not. The autopsy was a matter of course. The FBI will confirm it, internally, but then it will fade into rumor. It is a closed circuit that only returns to me._

Opening the former folder, he found Lounds’s spy photograph. He sat back in his chair, uncrossing his long legs. Fury, cold fury, crept from the tips of his fingers that touched the keypad to grip his chest. He sat for what must have been close to an hour, in thought. Lecter had no need for the photograph itself. His own memory was far more detailed than a flat image; while Lecter deeply resented the intrusion into the privacy of his home, what sparked this anger in him was the additional bombardment of his ruined plans. This _insult_ to the injury that Will had inflicted. _Ms. Lounds has put too many pieces together, when they need to remain separate. Will once again appears to be a conspirator, after all I did to extricate him._

He shut the laptop closed, rising from the desk. Alana Bloom had once joked about self-medication. Bedelia did not indulge in the same style of levity, but he could smell the open wine even though it was only late afternoon. Lecter walked to her room, giving only the briefest knock on the door. Seated at her own desk, making notes in a book with a glass of wine in front of her, she turned in surprise. She registered the inscrutable expression on his face. Bedelia’s hair was swept up, so Lecter noticed the slight flush on her neck at the intrusion. “Hannibal,” she began in a hint of reproach, “is there something you need?” Lecter kept his tone measured when he replied, “Yes, my dear. I need to discuss a complication with you, and beg your forgiveness for not notifying you of it sooner. It is quite likely that we will have a guest soon." 


	3. Slick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will remembers how he became entrapped in Hannibal's endgame, when he reached the point from which he couldn't return.  
> PW(a small amount of)P.

Will sat on his front porch in the late June sunset, absently holding the whiskey he wasn’t supposed to have. All of spring had been spent in the hospital and the rehabilitation center. His recovery extended several times- infections from his sliced guts, then of the wound itself.  He finally signed himself out “against medical advice”, stamped in red warning letters on the forms. He couldn’t stand being in the recycled hospital air anymore.  He gulped down his liquor staring out across the field, but his gaze was turned inward, remembering.

            _Hannibal was rough. Even in his depersonalized state, Will was surprised by the force with which Hannibal seized his wrist. Hannibal’s grip was tight enough that Will would have been pulled over if he balked. So Will tried to match his pace in the pitch dark hallway. A half-dozen paces in, Hannibal pushed Will against the wall to kiss him again. It was so dark that Will felt only the weight of Hannibal’s jaw working his own open. He put his hands in the man’s hair to orient himself; when Hannibal came up for air, Will caught Hannibal’s lower lip between his teeth, like a piece of overripe fruit. Most people would instinctively pull back. Instead, Will felt Hannibal’s mouth smile against his own. He broke the kiss to keep dragging Will on._

_Hannibal knew where they were going, of course. When they reached the stairs, the top of Will’s foot caught on the underside of one of the carpeted steps and he tripped, colliding into the bannister and the other man’s shoulder. Hannibal managed to grab him before he fell to the floor. He let go of Will immediately. “I forget,” Hannibal said “that I am so accustomed to this house”. Will thought his accent was heavier, and a trace of nervousness pervaded his voice. Will just shook his head. “You’re leading the way,” he said. Hannibal nodded, turning. Will followed him, barely any noise but their breath on the carpeted stairs- the music followed them, something Will couldn’t place. Wired speakers through the house. Of course._

_When they reached the bedroom, Hannibal went in first to turn on a small lamp. Will had to stifle a laugh at the doorway. The blue, the matching everything. This was not a room where anyone relaxed. Maybe Lecter did truly enjoy the things his hobbies- but every interest, every act, had to be a performance. A performance so spectacular to distract any viewer from questioning the reality with which they were presented. Will remembered- the old razzle-dazzle. ‘Though you are stiffer than a girder, they’ll let you get away with murder’…_

_Hannibal was watching him. He said “Would you like to come in, Will?” very precisely. Will walked in, maintaining eye contact. He wasn’t opposed to- the problem was to stay inside. Keep himself, his real self, where Lecter could not read him. Will knew that was about to get more difficult as he felt himself getting excited. Not hard yet, but anticipating._

_He stopped about a foot away from the doctor’s chest and looked at him expectantly. “Well, now,” Hannibal said evenly, aiming for jovially, “you’re dressed better than I am for once”. He reached for Will’s shoulders and smoothed the jacket off him. Will could feel Hannibal trying to restrain himself. No time like the present, he thought._

_Will kissed him again, putting his arms around Hannibal. He thought he felt the man relax a certain amount of his defenses as Hannibal sank slightly to meet his mouth. It was odd- Will guided Hannibal to sit down on Hannibal’s own bed, grinning that Hannibal had to break contact to untie his shoes- Will had kicked his off in a second, reclining back on Hannibal’s enormous pillows to watch the genteel doctor glare at his shoelaces, twisting the loops with his long fingers til the knots came apart._

_But Will stopped grinning once Hannibal lay atop him. Yes, there was restraint in the way he touched Will, but that was almost more frightening- with the knowledge that the hands that had crushed Beverly’s windpipe and sawed through Miriam Lass’s arm had unbuttoned his shirt and ran along his wiry-muscled body. Hannibal outweighed him; Will was a fighter, but if it came to it, he knew he would lose._

_This was the oddest thing aspect of this moment, that these thoughts ran through his head as he was pressed into a duvet that likely cost more than his car by Hannibal’s body. They broke apart momentarily. Will realized with a jolt that he had seen Hannibal look this way once before, hair messily in his eyes, lips puffy, eyes reddened. After Tobias Budge had attacked him; that was the only other time Hannibal appeared so… needy. That he_ wanted _something, from Will._ Desired.

_Will felt Hannibal’s erection pressing into his thigh. He was aware of his own, and his hands unbuttoning Hannibal’s vest. Hannibal moved his own hands down to unbuckle Will’s belt; he must have caught the change in Will’s face and registered the fear there. He didn’t stop._

_“Have you done this before, Will?” Hannibal asked pointedly as he slid the zipper down. “I- yes, if you mean with a man, but not in- and you were with Alana,” Will said slightly defensively. He had the buttons open now; he slid off the noose of Hannibal’s tie, inhaling as the other man’s hands slid inside his now-unzipped pants, over the fabric of his cotton boxer-briefs. Will dropped the tie beside them._

_“Alana is… a wonderful woman. Highly intelligent, competent… beautiful. She was… very nice… in bed,” Hannibal said, locking eye contact with Will to demonstrate that he felt no shame or contradiction. “But,” he continued, “she and I lacked a common perspective on certain issues”. Hannibal broke the eye contact to place his lips on Will’s neck. “I’m not too surprised by that, doctor,” said Will, surprising himself. He could almost feel the eyebrow raised as Hannibal bit and sucked on the stubble at Will’s throat. Will’s arms dropped to be outstretched at his sides. “It seems with her,” Will rasped, “that you were almost clinical.”_

_Hannibal raised himself up on one elbow at that. “_ Alana _said?” he asked. Will replied factually, although his heart raced at his own daring, “It was obvious. She was more tense the days after she spent time with you, not less.” Hannibal said nothing. Instead, he inserted his right hand into Will’s boxer-briefs, grasping Will’s penis. Will involuntarily, audibly gasped at the contact. Hannibal began to squeeze- not quite stroke, applying pressure to a degree that was uncomfortable, but since every degree before and after the apex was extremely pleasurable, Will did not want to complain. He just stared at Hannibal. Those hands, monstrous and dexterous, one wrapped around his cock like a vise. Hannibal moved his calloused thumb up to touch the head of Will’s cock and Will knew his face seized at the intensity of the sensation. It felt like an icepick to his brainstem- disrupting all other circuitry._

_All the worse when Hannibal withdrew his hand; Will numbly assisted in removing his own clothes from his lower body. When he settled back onto the bed, Hannibal had shifted to a sitting position. He took ahold of Will’s now-dark pink cock in his left hand and reached between Will’s legs to grasp his balls with his right. The grip was too firm to be comfortable; Will squirmed at the intensity as Hannibal squeezed his cock and massaged- pressing firmly with his forefinger at the point where Will’s sac met his body- him. “If I am clinical, I certainly do not want you to feel too tense- not once we are finished, anyway,” Hannibal said dryly. Will, who loathed eye contact with the human population, stared at Hannibal’s smirking face as the doctor continued palpating his balls, his fingers in a firm C, releasing occasionally to deeply massage the innermost point of Will’s thigh. When Hannibal moved his hand to grasp with the web of his hand at the back of Will’s balls, Will felt himself begin to leak pre-come and Hannibal took advantage of this to wrap his palm around the now-slick head of Will’s cock. Will groaned, arching his back involuntarily. He felt light-headed, catching sight of his livid red cock in Hannibal’s hands before shutting his eyes. The pressure released momentarily, he heard the rustle of the bedclothes and the clip of a drawer being shut; then the warmth of lubricant liquid and Will began to pant as if he were on fire._

_“Will, if you can’t restrain yourself-“ the smug satisfaction in Hannibal’s voice was obscene, “- perhaps I can assist you”. Will opened his eyes and raised his arms to allow Hannibal to loop the silk of his discarded necktie around Will’s wrists. Hannibal slipped the free end taut. It wouldn’t restrain Will. It reminder that he lay exposed, on the border of agony and ecstasy, under Hannibal’s hands on Hannibal’s bed. He closed his eyes and balled his fists as Hannibal resumed his ministrations._

_Still, had Will looked as his spine contracted to an arc on the bed, he would have seen that Hannibal grasped the base of his cock, pumping upwards with force like it was not attached to a living person. Will would not have thought to ever apply the word ‘writhed’ to his own movements, but as Hannibal greedily watched his hips twist as he struggled not to come. Sweat had beaded on his chest and the closer Will came, the closer the perspiration came to running down his chest. As Hannibal, still palming Will’s balls between his spread legs, wrapped his hand around the head of Will’s cock and accelerated to deft, slippery movements, the seated man bent at the waist to grasp Will’s left nipple in his teeth- and bit. With a cry that registered as an actual shout, Will’s eyes flew open as he reached his orgasm, the fluid wetting Hannibal’s hand at the first spurt- another gushing over Hannibal’s fist- and a third landing on Will’s own stomach. Will’s heart battered his ribcage as Hannibal sat back up, releasing Will’s balls, at which Will’s legs relaxed from their contraction. Incredible that his knees could ache though he was on his back. Dimly aware, Will expected the doctor to let go of his cock at the same time, but he lazily stroked, from base to head, once again… twice… a third time as Will seized from the sensitivity, glaring at Hannibal with more vehemence than he had felt since being released from the institute._

_With a subtle laugh at Will’s reaction, Hannibal let go, and reached for Will’s hands to remove the tie. Puzzled by Hannibal not stopping to clean the semen off his hand, Will asked, between breaths, “Aren’t… you getting that dirty?” Hannibal smiled, more kindly. “Will,” he said, “I have over a hundred of these. I am glad to have resources, as my appetite can be voracious”. Will’s breathing slowed as his blood began to redistribute- but Hannibal laid his clean hand over Will’s heart. Will shakily propped himself up on his elbows, looking up to the feline face with eyes glittering at him. “Besides,” Hannibal said, “I am hoping we’re not quite finished yet”. Will finally noticed in the lamplight that Hannibal was still hard. He smiled, which Hannibal must have noticed, because he gave a warm laugh as he pulled Will’s head towards his lap-_

One of the dogs barked, severing Will from his reverie. He realized with a start that it was now fully dark outside. He rose to walk slowly inside, whistling for the pack to join him. At least they understood that he could not chase them for now. Zeller and Price had taken good care of the dogs while Will (and their previous caretaker, Alana) was in the hospital and still stopped by about once a week to hike across the property with the dogs for a longer stretch than Will could. The men checked in on Will’s country house repeatedly- sometimes together, sometimes individually (Will suspected they had a schedule), but he steadfastly refused their invitations to dinner and attempts to stay for longer than a few minutes. He knew they were worried; once Price managed to keep Will on the porch in conversation while Zeller went inside, and the crash of an overturned cabinet lead Will to suspect that the man had been checking Will’s guns. He wished he could feel anger at the intrusion, or better, gratitude that these men cared enough about his welfare to guard against Will using one of his guns on himself- but he was numb. Lecter severed the things that held Will metaphorically together, as well.

            It’s better that way, Will thought as he settled himself into his Spartan bed. The less he felt, the less he remembered. And the less he remembered- it helped keep the dreams at bay. But as the tide of unconsciousness pulled him out to sleep again, his thoughts went to another time with Lecter- not that first night, but weeks later. If he had thought everything changed the first time they veered into sexual intimacy, he had no idea what lay in store.

_When the atmosphere changed, Will’s eyes opened. The footsteps were too light to be heard. Yet he had sensed a new presence in the room. His head was pillowed on the bicep of Hannibal’s outstretched arm. Hannibal’s arm was around his neck, arm splayed across the pillows. Will had moved his face away from Hannibal’s head. He blinked rapidly in the hope his head would clear, but whatever tainted his bloodstream still filtered his vision. Hannibal shifted, a satisfied “mmmph” near Will’s ear. He hadn’t been as deeply asleep was Will, if at all. Hannibal turned to the form at the edge of the bed. With his unnatural calm, he said “There you are.” At that moment, Will knew a split second before he saw-_

__Abigail._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real life is super busy at the moment. Updates will be weekly, every Saturday/Sunday. 
> 
> Preview for next week- Will is having dinner with Price and Zeller (they insist), but being interviewed by Lounds on the same day forces him to remember when he first suspected that Abigail was still alive... and how Lecter primed him to suppress those memories.
> 
> P.S. I examined a lot of high-res stills of the Ko No Mono dinner scene to write this, and there were oysters, figs, and what looked like pomegranate seeds on the dishes. Nobody's ever going to convince me that Lecter piled all those aphrodisiacs on the table just to send Graham home at 11 PM. First attempt at writing anything remotely smutty.


	4. The Sting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will starts to answer questions from Freddie, and gets an update from his friends at BAU. He comes to a realization.

_Abigail, standing at the bedside. She was slender and pale as a ghost, if she was a ghost, rather than a hallucination. Will stared at his dead infanta, expecting her features to warp into a new nightmare creature. But even through his delirium, she appeared human. Alive. Abigail wore a sleeveless, floor length black nightgown. Her hair was loose around her shoulders- Will craned his neck to see her ears, but she was cloaked in the dim and her hair. The deep vee neckline rose with her breath; she was calm. She did not radiate the childish happiness she had in Will’s imagined fishing lessons._

_“Abigail”, said Hannibal calmly, “have you been waiting long?” She blinked her china-doll eyes, looking down to the doctor lying long and languid in his bed. “It’s been a long time,” she said flatly. She slowly gazed back to Will. “I missed you,” she said. Her affect was… constrained. Will was sure that she was in the same fog that he was._

_“He missed you too, very much,” Hannibal said affectionately, releasing Will’s hair before pulling his arm out from around the agent’s shoulders. Will wanted to reach out her, too, but even his tears were too far away to summon._

_He could only stare as Hannibal stretched a long left arm out to offer Abigail his hand. Wordlessly, she took Hannibal’s hand and lifted the hem with her other hand to step onto the bed._

“- and so when you walked into the kitchen, that was when you saw Abigail Hobbs again?” asked Freddie. Will blinked. This interview was taking far longer than he thought; too much longer and he wouldn’t be convincing even to Freddie. Lying to her was easier than he imagined. She had clearly already decided what narrative to write, he was merely functioning as a citation. Whatever would finish this part.

“Yes,” he said. Freddie frowned slightly at him. She wanted detail. Will took a deep breath. “It happened fast, Freddie. She- Abigail- came out of the side hallway, the one that connects to the dining room. You’ve been there. She walked into the kitchen, told me she just did what he told her to do. He came up behind me, next thing I knew, the paramedics were shouting in my face in the back of the ambulance. It was over in seconds.” His hands were cupped in front of him, almost in supplication.

Freddie was plainly irritated. “What did you notice about her? Was she thinner? Did she have any bruises from Hannibal Lecter’s abuse?” she demanded. Will winced. “I saw her face and her hands, Freddie. It happened too fast for me to ask her how he treated her. I never got the chance to talk to her,” he said, “I don’t think he would hurt her. He would consider that… rude. He was keeping her to lure me in, not to torture her.”

“Will,” she said, exasperated, “he murdered _eighteen people_ , including three FBI agents. On the topic we’re discussing, he killed at least two teenage girls- Abigail’s own best friend, Marissa. Don’t tell me he _wouldn’t_ torture a young woman. You never noticed any noise or sign of a nineteen-year-old in his house, Will? Living people tend to make noise.  Nothing, in all the times you were there after your release from Baltimore State?” Freddie demanded. Will shook his head. “I was in the kitchen, the parlor, the downstairs bathroom. I didn’t go exploring,” he said. Freddie narrowed her eyes at him. He jerked his head towards the cell phone laying on the coffee table between them. “The recording, Freddie”.

She pursed her lips thoughtfully, then reached forward to tap the phone’s screen. She held it up for him to see the red “off” icon, then stowed it in her handbag. “All right, Will,” she said, “I just want to know. You were upstairs- no, you were” she interrupted his fervent shake of his head, “and her bedroom was the floor above his. She wasn’t in the basement with Miriam Lass. Did you notice _anything_? Hear footsteps?” Her eyes searched his face. “No,” he said firmly, “Freddie, Le- he was a doctor. She was probably under varying levels of sedation the whole time. He could calibrate that without killing her. I never went up to the third floor- he slept in his own bedroom when I was there.” In response to Freddie’s eye-roll, he said, “ _Fine_. _We_ slept in his bedroom.”

She huffed for a moment. Then, Freddie tilted her head. “Have you read the autopsy report yet, Will?” she asked, more quietly. He shook his head. “Why would I do that, Freddie? I won’t even ask how you read it. I know how she died. I nearly drowned in her blood,” he said.  Freddie mulled this over for a few seconds longer than seemed necessary. “You need to, Will.” “Why are you pushing this if you don’t believe me, Freddie?” he asked. “Don’t take your anger out on me, Will,” she retorted. “I think you would have saved her if you could. I want to know how he prevented you from doing that”. Freddie realized the blood had drained from Will’s face. “All right, Will. We’ll pick up again later; I’ll call you with my schedule,” she said tiredly.

Zeller was waiting outside Lounds’s office for Will. Will was still not supposed to drive for long periods of time. He was willing to chance his recovery with the whiskey, but not to sit in traffic on I-95. Zeller and Price ferried him from Wolf Trap to Baltimore on a semi-regular basis lately. “Hey, Will,” said the taller man. As they walked to Zeller’s car, parked on Fleet Street, Will thought they could have passed for brothers from a distance.

“Freddie Lounds doesn’t do house calls now that she has a book deal?” Zeller asked jokingly. “She flatly refused to come to my house… which isn’t that unreasonable, since I faked her murder there,” Will replied, “before I told her it was fake.” If anyone could sigh silently, it was Zeller. Nearly fifty miles from Baltimore to Will’s home, and it would take almost two hours this time of day.

As they got underway to the Fort McHenry tunnel, NPR chattering from the radio, Zeller tried again. “How’ve you been feeling, lately, Will?” he asked, eyes kept carefully on the road. Will figured there was no getting out of this. “Better, I think,” he said, “stronger lately. Made it out to get my mail at the boundary line of the property yesterday.” “Good, good,” the other man said, struggling to build on the spindly scaffold of conversation, “Yeah, glad you’re getting outside, with all the crazy weather last winter, glad it’s finally summer. It’s been a good season for the Os so far… I mean, I guess you’d be a Nats man, but you know, that’s better than Jim, he loves the Mets, just no reasoning with him on that.” Zeller glanced at Will to see if the joke registered at all. “You move in yet?” Will asked bluntly. Zeller smiled tightly, _At least he’s talking_ written across his expression. “No, but I might as well have. Seems like all my stuff is there. I have a few more months left on my lease- have to figure out what we don’t need two of, you know? Things kinda sped up with us after Bev died, which, hard to believe it was only nine months- ah, fuck,” he cursed as he realized where the conversation had gone, “You knew I’d start talking about her.”

Will twisted his mouth in something like a smile. “Sorry, Brian,” he said. He glanced at Zeller, who was staring fixedly at the road, then swerved to the left lane towards connection to the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. “I-95’s faster,” said Will. “Not going to Woodbridge,” said Zeller, flatly. Will scowled, realizing what Zeller meant. “Come on, Brian, I appreciate the ride but I want to get back,” he said. Zeller talked out of the side of his mouth, navigating traffic, “It’ll make him happy, Will, so deal with it. Jim’s been the one scheduling the carpool to your stuff, your checkups and interviews. He’s the one who suggested I apologize after Bev- died. You sulk all you want, but you’re gonna be nice around him for once.” “Christ, Zeller, I just want to go home,” Will said with annoyance, pulling a bottle of painkillers from his pocket for his afternoon dose and putting more effort into opening it than necessary. Matching his annoyed tone, Zeller retorted “Call the cops. We’re crossing state lines; they’ll send the FBI.”

Zeller all but manhandled Will through the front door of Price’s brick ranch-style house in Woodbridge. “Hey!” he called out breezily before Will could say anything, “Guess what- got Will to come for dinner, too.” Jimmy Price appeared as they walked down the short hallway into the living room, where the TV blared local news. Though he glanced with a smile at Zeller, Price hugged Will first. Will always found the shorter man the more tolerable of the two; he allowed Price to make a fuss over his recovery, install him in a chair at the wooden dinner table in a sunny alcove just off the kitchen. Price and Zeller’s warm camaraderie was infectious. Even Will had to grin incredulously when Price brought out red ketchup-coated meatloaf that was burnt at the edges. Price laughed at Will’s expression, exclaiming “What, are you going to insult my mother, too?”, bringing out actual laughter from the dour profiler. Zeller visibly relaxed, though he handed Will a Coke when he retrieved beers for himself and Price. Will found he was enjoying himself.

Price was telling a story about a body being stuck in a pool drain that had them all laughing til it ended with “-that’s what I told Alana!” and Will knew his own face fell. He pretended to rattle the ice in his cup as Price and Zeller exchanged worried looks. “How is she?” he asked in what he hoped was a casual tone. Price cleared his throat slightly before answering “She’s, uh, she’s still recovering, Will. You know her back was broken- but, she’s a fighter, we knew she wouldn’t be stuck in that chair forever, but-” (Will could _hear_ Zeller turn his eyes heavenward) “she’s still got… as many good days as bad. Fortunately, she lives closer than you do.” Price attempted to rescue the conversation with a smile, which Will saw falter when the other man saw Will’s face. Price put his hand on Will’s shoulder for a moment in reassurance, “I didn’t mean to upset you, Will. Alana’s going to be okay. She knows it wasn’t your fault.”

Will tried to smile, but he looked at the table as he said “Do you think I should call her? Visit?” A beat of silence. “I think you should wait on that a while, Will,” Zeller said finally. “We see her once or twice a week, Will, and her sisters are over from Pennsylvania practically every weekend. She’s being taken care of,” Price added hastily. Will nodded. It hadn’t occurred to him to consider that Price and Zeller were helping Alana, too. He’d thought of her very little since he’d learned she survived (with multiple fractures and minus her spleen); he’d shut away all his memories of her behind a solid partition. Will felt numb to his guilt- he kissed her, she tried to help him even when she didn’t believe him. He used her. Now she believed him, when he wished he’d never drawn her into this.

He became aware that Zeller was nudging a glass with whiskey in it at him. Zeller held two other glasses in his other hand, and the bottle under his arm. Will accepted the glass, raising an eyebrow at Zeller. “If we’re gonna talk about this, might as well get through it,” the tall man sighed. He sat again and asked “You want the general update, Will?” Price looked nervously between the two of them. Will cleared his throat. “Yeah, that’d be good,” he said evenly. “Alana _will_ be okay. We don’t talk about that night with her, but she’s angry at you, angry at Jack Crawford. Angry at herself. Crawford’s back at work already. I mean, getting stabbed in the neck isn’t fun, but besides cracked ribs, he was physically fine once he got transfusions and stitches. You know him. The bureau pushed him to stay home, at least until Bella- you know. But she’s still with us, incredibly, so he insisted on coming back to work. I think the higher brass just got tired of all his phone calls,” Zeller said, smiling faintly. “Crawford’s not officially on the Lecter case, but… like Brian said, you know him,” added Price, “and Lecter disappeared. Best the bureau can track, he stole a neighbor’s car, put stolen plates on it, and drove to Annapolis. He had an apartment there, one we didn’t know about. Next we can tell, he went to New York in another car. He went to his psychiatrist’s- I guess you could call it her safe house, if they’ve got those on the Upper East Side. Here’s the first part that we don’t want to upset you, Will- it’s the weirdest thing- she left with him. The bureau’s kept it out of the press so far. We have no idea if it was a kidnapping or if she was… in on it.” Price searched his face to see how Will was taking this. He remained impassive. “That makes sense,” Will said after a moment, “she was more of a friend than a doctor to him. She’s… neutral.” Zeller and Price exchanged glances. “Where’d they go?” Will asked. “As best we know, they got on a private jet, which landed in Mexico City. She cleared customs with her real passport, we lost the trail after that. A lot of money makes it easy to hide, and we’re talking _tens_ of millions. Lecter’s family trust is in Switzerland- they won’t cooperate, and that’s only the official one we know about,” Zeller explained. “It wasn’t ‘Barry Bonds’ that Jack was yelling about the last time I heard him on the phone with the Interpol people,” Price interjected dryly, “because we know Lecter liquidated most of his US accounts before… that night.”

Will sat back in his chair. “So he’s in the wind,” he said, looking at the ceiling. He figured as much. Lecter wasn’t one to leave things to chance. Will returned to the conversation when he heard Zeller clear his throat. Price was intently looking away, down at the tablecloth. “Like we said, you know Jack,” Zeller said casually, though Will almost smiled at the more familiar _we_ , “and he’s got a hunch Lecter would stay in contact somehow. He’s had Freddie Lounds under… unofficial surveillance… for weeks. We think she’s using the mail. The actual, old-fashioned mail, stamps and everything. Letters from odd addresses coming to her fairly regularly after she uses this old mailbox at the Druid Hill track. Of course, we can’t _open_ her mail, but we can keep track of where it comes from. It looks like there’s a lead. We’ll know in a week or two- if she gets another letter, we’ll have an idea where to start.” Zeller looked away quickly when he realized Will was staring at him. “That’s great work, Brian,” Will said. Zeller swallowed before he began, “There’s something you need to know about her- about the poor girl’s condition, when they did the autopsy, very few people- Jim!”

Price had jabbed Zeller in the ribs with his elbow. “We can get into that another time, he’s half-asleep already,” he said insistently to his boyfriend. Will realized this was true; the tumbler was empty in his hand, having mixed with the painkillers he’d taken on the car ride there. He’d been lulled by the alcohol and the domesticity, the easy companionship in this house. “But…” he tried to say.

Price rose, patting Will on the shoulder again. “Okay, I think it’s the couch for you, buddy.” He saw Will begin to protest and added “I don’t want Brian driving after drinking, and you’re not _walking_ to your place. If you can fly, now’s the time to tell us.” Price grinned at Will and pointed towards a overstuffed, slightly worn sofa in the living room off the kitchen. Will managed to catch the blankets and pillow that Zeller tossed him that the taller man extracted from a small hall closet, wincing only slightly at the burn through his abdomen at the sudden movment. “Ah, sorry,” Zeller said sheepishly as he passed by towards a bedroom door where Price stood, who called out “Bathroom’s down the hall, Will. If you need anything, just knock. We’re up early for work tomorrow,” as he shut the door.

 _Lived in_ , he thought as he kicked off his shoes and settled under the blanket (he didn’t even bother with sheets on his own bed, half the time), _that’s what Price’s house is_. He heard a low, muffled laugh emanating from the direction of the bedroom. His mind drifted to a photo of the two men (at a baseball game by the hats and excited expressions), stuck to the fridge with a magnet, near photos of kids he assumed were Price’s nieces and nephews. Then realization hit Will’s mind at the juxtaposition of the happy couple and someone else’s children- he sat back up, bolt upright. _Oh fuck_ , he thought, _even Price and Zeller know she was pregnant_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay- unfortunately I am super-busy for the next month, so chapters may be delayed. I'm not thrilled with what I've got here (not enough detail since I was in a rush to write) and I may re-edit it (for greater detail) in the next week. Thanks for bearing with me!
> 
> The Barry Bonds joke would be bearer bonds, which are a rare-ish form of bond, essentially untraceable and never expiring. They come in denominations of up to $10,000- very important, because the largest US currency is $100 and even $100k would be a huge pain to carry when leaving the country. See example at http://theoatmeal(dot)com/blog/charity_money .

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter written in 3 hours with nothing but spell-check. Haven't written fiction in years, but damn, this fandom! As close to canon as I can get (refuse to watch the S3 promos so far). Can't skim over Hannibal being the worst- but plan to get smuttier and more graphic. Had to delete previous version out of sheer anxiety. Being a longtime Bawlmerian, I'm saddened by the lack of explicit Balimore references in Hannibal- going to shoehorn as many as I can into my writing (without making Hannibal go to OBrycki's at BWI). 
> 
> As always: All rights belong to our lord and savior Thomas Harris and his not-begotten son, Bryan Fuller.


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